The little shack out back

published September 22, 2011

in the Stockton Sentinel

Stockton, Kansas

            I know some of you reading this did not grow up with an outhouse, but I think there’s a couple of you out there who did. It’s obviously not the most exciting memory of my childhood, but it’s a memory nonetheless. Ours was the Deluxe model: a two-holer. I’ve never figured out why it was built that way; I certainly don’t think two people ever used it at the same time.

            There’s no such thing as a “good memory” of an outhouse. You remember it (in fact, you’ll never forget it!), but it’s not a happy memory. Rain or shine, snow or sleet – whatever Mother Nature had in store – there was no way to avoid the call of nature.

            Rest assured, I’m not going to dive into a diatribe about my outhouse memories. But my dad forwarded an email to me last week, and it’s just too classic not to share. It won’t be as funny for those who did not grow up in the days of the little shack out back. Maybe this will spawn a memory for some of you to share with your kids or grandkids. Enjoy…

“The Outhouse Poem”

The service station trade was slow, the owner sat around,

With sharpened knife and cedar stick, piled shavings on the ground.

No modern facilities had they, the log across the creek

Led to a shack, marked “His” and “Hers,” they call it “shabby chic.”

“Where is the ladies restroom, sir?” The owner, leaning back,

Said not a word but whittled on, and nodded toward the shack.

With quickened step she entered there, but only stayed a minute

Until she screamed, just like a snake or spider might be in it.

With startled look and beet red face she bounded through the door,

And headed quickly for the car just like three gals had before.

She missed the foot log, jumped the stream; the owner gave a shout

Just as her silk stockings, down at her knees caught on a sassafras sprout.

She tripped and fell, got up and then, in obvious disgust,

Ran to the car, stepped on the gas, and faded in the dust.

Of course we all desired to know what made the gals all do

The things they did, and then we found, the whittling owner knew.

A speaking system he’d devised – to make the thing complete,

He’d tied a speaker on the wall beneath the toilet seat.

He’d wait until the gals got set, and then the devilish tike,

Would stop his whittling long enough to speak into the mike.

And as she sat, a voice below struck terror, fright and fear.

“Will you please use the other hole? We’re painting under here!”